Poetica 47

The war I always have to fight with your clothes never seems fair.
Button after button like coins in a metre for my fare.
But tonight, the few silk bodies were dressed in your skin.
As my tongue ate them up before heading for the win.
I was thirsting for you but you said you were just a snack.
But I quenched it by feeding, as you lay on your back.
You clawed as my appetite rose and so did my zeal.
As I took my last gulp, you exploded into a meal.

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